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Salon of Poetry for Critique - Four
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Poem Number 351
A rumble
Seven leaves on the pavement
A bloodbath
The way the sun shines through the grid
like shadows on the heart
of a misfit in the camps clamorous, in dirt we trust
And dirt we mistrust
But it matters not, for the earth will swallow us
Once consumed and digested,
We become what we mistrust- our end
just dirt and dust.
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